


The Recovery

by Happyorogeny



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Blood and Injury, Burns, Character Death, Darkshore, Gen, Gore, War of the Thorns | Burning of Teldrassil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 04:52:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15550011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Happyorogeny/pseuds/Happyorogeny
Summary: Serotiny took care with her disguise. A saber, half-burned to hide the markings on her shoulder that would identify her as a druid. Large enough to pass as a riding cat, displaced, searching for its owner amidst the dead of Darkshore.For all were not dead. Many. Most. But not all.





	The Recovery

Serotiny took care with her disguise. A saber, half-burned to hide the markings on her shoulder that would identify her as a druid. Large enough to pass as a riding cat, displaced, searching for its owner amidst the dead of Darkshore.

For all were not dead. Many. Most. But not all.

But her shapeshifting meant she had to endure the smell. Blood, gore, smoke and beyond that- no. No, she would not think of it. If she stopped to think, she would crumble. If she crumbled, more would die. She needed her sense of smell, for a number of still-conscious warriors had turned invisible with shock when they fired upon the- the-

She braced herself. The Tree.

How could they?! How could they?!

It is just a thing. Things can be remade, regrown. The words felt flat inside her head. People are important.

She had been running for hours. First she had fought the advancing army, then she had rescued people from their burning homes and sent them to city. It was supposed to be safe.

Even from here, the heat was blistering. She needed to go back, needed to-

_No. Stick to the plan. These women need me too._

She eased forwards to the Sentinel, entangled in the ropes and broken wood of a catapult she had singlehandedly destroyed. She had clearly fought like a demon, having planted herself like a tree so that the civilians could escape. She was very weak, her heartbeat fluttering in her neck. The druid curled against her and pressed a heavy paw to her broken chest.

All druids could heal, a little. Even in feral form, if the conditions were calm enough for them to concentrate. But there was a lot here- blood in the lungs, broken ribs, internal bruising. The Sentinels’ eyes snapped half open as she cleared her airways and set her ribs back. Enough to keep her stable until the true healers arrived.

“Druid! Don’t waste your time on me! Go to the city!”

She wanted to. But she had her job. The druids were usually a free spirited lot with little in the way of hierarchy or organisation, but they’d pulled together during the siege. All of them had the instincts of wild animals. All of them had known a trap, had known danger approached.

She paused to snuffle at another fighter. This one was dead, her hands still locked around the throat of an enemy warrior. She’d fought six of them and dragged this last down with her. She marked her face with ash so that the other healers would know she had been cared for, would move on in search of those would could be aided.

A blue wisp blossomed into life over the woman’s chest. She head bumped it in greeting. Many of the Sentinels today would become wisps.

The wisp led her to an archer, half buried in the sand. She’d pressed moss against the stomach wound to stem the bleeding. Clever woman! Now she could be saved. She set a paw on her leg and reached for her mana reserves.

She ought to have run dry of magic by now. But the forest had rose to the aid of the Kaldorei, giving them strength, stamina, mana. The oldest trees lent her their ancient life, their power. It was a rare honour, and she was determined to be right by it.

But she could feel herself tiring. She’d been working non-stop for a long time now.

_They need me. Move._

The wind shifted, bringing a stinging cloud of smoke across the beach. She lowered her head, coughed once, and let the third eyelid slip over her eye so that she could continue her healing unimpeded. This one had been poisoned. She chased it down through her veins as she would have chased down a dangerous snake.

She couldn’t help but hear the other survivors, whimpering, and prayed someone got to them before it was too late. The druids on the beach were few in number, for they were needed elsewhere. The best flyers remained within Darnassus, flitting through windows to snatch people from the flames and carrying them to the damaged fleet, floating in the ocean. The strongest healers had stayed in the temple, dragging life back into bodies that looked beyond help. A herd of fleet-footed stags dashed through collapsing branches and leaped burning blockades, lifting anyone they could and running through the portals to Stormwind only to return again, galloping in a constant circuit through the crumbling city.

She licked the Sentinel’s hand as the woman tried to push her off, resetting the bones. She sighed at her and pointed weakly through the sand.

“There. My general was fighting…”

She gasped as an immense branch broke loose of the World Tree and fell with a slow and terrible grace towards the ocean. Shrieks rang out across the beach, dying Kaldorei reaching out as if to stop its collapse. She tried to map the cries, even as her mind spun. How could something so immense just shatter? Just like that? How could all their efforts mean nothing?

Something so large would create a wave, part of her thought dully. She needed to check the foreshore, quickly, and drag away anyone that might drown.

She tripped across a Huntress on the way there. The woman had gone invisible with shock, run through by a jagged spear. She paused. Every moment she hesitated, someone else might die. Her teachers had told her to be harsh- if someone was beyond aid, she had to prioritise those who would live.

But a remarkably bright eyed crow bounced past her, down to where the general lay surrounded by fallen enemies, her saber across her as if to protect her in its final moments. Another druid, whose name she couldn’t recall. She sagged with relief and settled next to the Huntress.

This one hadn’t lost a lot of blood. The spear was acting as a plug. If she could stabilise her, the healers could do their job. Assuming any of them made it out alive.

Of course they would, she told herself. The city had a number of mages capable of opening portals. They’d even started a little guild for themselves a while back, and the teleporter hadn’t yet caught flame when she had left for Darkshore. It had flying druids strong enough to carry people on their back, and running sabers who could climb vertically down the tree trunk. They even had demon hunters, and she’d seen several of them use their magical sight to pull people out of burning buildings before they collapsed.

They would get out, Elune be praised.

Yet still, she could smell meat burning.

You won’t be able to save everyone, her healing Shan’do had often said, his eyes sad. All you can do is weigh the numbers, tip the odds.

People were screaming. So many that it carried over the water. It was all she could do not to break into a run towards the sound. The women here needed her, too.

She tilted her head up. It was nightfall and it ought to have been beautiful, a warm summer’s eve of clear skies and a bright moon. Instead all was embers and ash and drifting smoke. But she was a Kaldorei, child of the night. She knew where the moon ought to be, and pointed her snout towards it as she worked.

_Please, help us._

The Huntress’s breathing eased, her heartrate steady. A lucky woman. Another inch to the left and it would have pierced her heart, leaving her beyond aid.

“What’s that creature doing?”

She froze at the sound. The Horde had mostly pulled back, but she’d allowed herself to grow distracted in her work. Two men watched her, a troll and an orc. She stayed where she was, crouched low against the Huntress, mind racing. Could she fight them off if they came over to investigate? Would the noise draw down more fighters upon them?

“Leave it,” said the orc. His voice was heavy. He looked old, with long white hair pulled into braids. She went stiff with horror. She’d seen that one leading the armies, fled from him with a child in her arms less than a day ago. He surely recognised her.

“But-”

“Leave it.”

The Huntress put a hand on the fur of her chest, holding her still as the soldiers left. She licked her lips and croaked weakly. She hissed at her, forcing elvish through cat jaws.

“Save strength.”

The Huntress looked miserably at the shaft jutting out of her chest. There was only so much that could be done to ease pain.

“Stay. Someone will come.”

And then she came upon the blood elf. He curled miserably on his side in the sand, hands over a huge gash in his side, ears flat with pain. His robes were so red that it nearly disguised the blood. He twitched as she appeared, trying to reach for his belt knife. For a minute she saw herself reflected in green eyes. An inky dark saber, burned and bloody, with teeth like daggers.

_You’ve killed people. My people. Poisoned them. Children. Innocents._

She bared her teeth. It would be simple. She had killed people before, though she disliked the taste of blood in her mouth. He inhaled shakily.

“Please.”

She put her paw on his head, pressing it into the sand.

_Don’t make me regret this._

He trembled in her grip, even after she finished healing him.

“There’s a woman down on the rocks.”

Indeed there was. She was in remarkably good shape for a woman missing a leg from the knee down. It was burned badly enough to have cauterised itself, and her eyes were glassy with pain and shock, but she still dragged herself through the sand with an air of determination. Where was she trying to go? But ah, she was probably well past such thoughts.

Serotiny pressed herself close and crouched low so that the soldier could tangle her fingers into her ruff. She was small for a saber, enough that the Sentinel’s good leg hung into the sand. She started forwards, slowly, for fear she fall off.

_I’ll carry you. I’ll carry all of us. I…_

She was one person. She couldn’t stop the fire, the army. She couldn’t do it all. It wasn’t enough 

“Up ahead,” the woman muttered weakly. “There’s a coastal village. Boats.”

The next one she found was dead, and the one after that, and the one after that. She marked them with ash, and the Sentinel whispered prayers and praises to her brave sisters. Others had been here before her, for she saw more women marked with ashes. There was a healer in the village! Oh, Elune be praised!

And suddenly voices rolled in on the ocean breeze, voices carrying over the waves from within the tree. She froze. They weren’t screaming now. No, the voices all came together. A song, a low sweet thing led by the priests. Not a hymn. A lullaby.

When the Kaldorei had lost their immortality, they had had to grow used to the concept of aging and death. They had never had laments or dirges. All their songs were joyful. So instead they had turned to the very same songs that eased them into sleep, songs that brought comfort and calm. More voices joined in as she listened. The Sentinel clinging to her ruff whispered the words, weakly.

They were singing themselves into the dark. Everyone that could escape had done so. The rest…

Her legs failed her and she slumped to the sand. Darkness chewed at the corner of her vision.

How were they to endure this?

And as if in answer Elune peered through the smoke. Argent moonlight poured across Darkshore like a balm, flickered against the waves, muted the dreadful orange glow of the flames. Yet still they burned. And still the Kaldorei were singing. If anything it had grown louder. Defiant.

_They know we’re out here, listening._

And now it shifted into the chorus of the moon, many voices singing over each other and together, an ancient song telling the story of the first elf. This was only sung during the peak of the Lunar festival, a time of great celebration and togetherness. Hearing it now amidst death and despair ought to have been obscene. And yet she lifted her head.

The screaming along the beach was dying out. They were trying to sing back, the answering verse.

This song had a dance associated with it, a dazzling twirl of skirts and veils. Were they- were they dancing in there, even as the flames came close?

The final verse came as always, a deafening crescendo that went on, and on, and on.

The crown of the tree suddenly blazed blue under the moonlight, and as she watched a great transformation took place. Instead of embers it was the brilliant blue wisps that floated upwards in a great spiral, illuminating the night, soaring out of the smoke and up towards the stars. She swore she could hear them singing as they went, though it was well known that wisps couldn’t talk. 

And then there was silence, darkness.

The wisp found her in sorry heap upon the beach, too exhausted even to sob. A new wisp, bright with azure light, whirling and spinning and hovering around her head like an excited child. A young Sentinel, then. The thought ought to have made her ache, but she was numb.

“Leave me,” she told it. Wisps were often said to come and guide lost folk in times of trouble. “Find others. Leave me.”

It spun twice in a circle, a double cartwheel. Familiar, that. Very…

“Oh, Summermoon,” she sighed. That poor, brave woman. “You deserved better.”

The wisp hovered in front of her, hopping up and down impatiently. Summermoon had always jiggled her foot like that when she waited.

The Sentinel on her back was still alive. She had a job to do.

She heaved herself up and followed as the wisp floated along in front of her.

The demon hunter saw her first, straightening and squinted at her as she came across the bridge. The mage was covered in soot and had half her clothes burned away, sitting exhausted on a stool as she held open a portal to Stormwind. They even had healers. No wonder she had found only the dead as she drew near. All the living were here, coughing and smoke dirty and shaking. One of the injured Sentinels gasped and rushed forwards to grasp at the one on her back.

“You fool! What were you thinking, running off alone like that!?”

“Oh, it drew them off you, didn’t it?”

She forced herself back into elf form as the healers took her away, grabbing the arm of the nearest one. He eyed her with concern.

“Druid. Your lungs are badly damaged.”

“There are more, along the beach. I’ll bring them, I can carry them.”

The healer frowned at her.

“No. You’ll collapse. Go through the portal.”

“But…”

“I have my hands full as it is. Go through and comfort the survivors. Izal?” The demon hunter glided over, seemingly unharmed by fighting or flames. If anything she looked almost energetic, bouncing on her toes and staring off down the shore. “She says there are more survivors on the beach.”

“Near Darkshore,” Serotiny clarified, and started to cough.

“I will find them,” the demon hunter said with absolute certainty and dashed away through the smoke. She barely felt the mage pushing her gently through the portal.

Blue skies. Sunlight. Her eyes snapped closed and she stumbled. A hand steadied her, was gone. A human chattered at her, something she didn’t understand, and dropped a sunhat onto her head. She flinched away, convinced it was an attack of some kind. Someone else caught her. A priestess, for she hummed gently as she set Serotiny back on her feet. And now, gradually, she looked around.

An immense stone wall towered over them, giving her enough shade that she wasn’t completely dazzled. The wind whispered through small human trees, stirred the surface of the lake. How could it be so peaceful here when- when-

Oh. There, the child she’d snatched out of the village early on, huddled against a Kaldorei man. He was struggling to pitch an unfamiliar human tent. She went to hold the poles steady.

She could smell soup. The Darnassian Gilneans had rallied around a gigantic cauldron and appeared to be doing their best to make a Kaldorei meal. A farmhand held out a pumpkin to them, with an uncertain expression, and someone else had appeared with a bag of wheat.

“They put rice into it, don’t they? This is almost the same.”

She stopped next to them and silently offered a number of eggs she’d snatched out of abandoned birds nests. They’d cooked in their shells as she rushed through the flames. The survivors would need as much nourishment as they could.

Her thoughts stuttered vaguely. She was a survivor, too.

Indeed, the Gilneans saw her glazed expression. A delicate little worgen woman gently took her offering and led her towards copper bathtubs to the side of the makeshift kitchen. A trio of men proudly wearing their tall hats poured black tea into copper bathtubs, making up poultices and easing the shock-drunk Kaldorei into the water.

It was a cure for burns, she remembered vaguely. The worgen tried to press her into the queue, but she became aware of the smell of a healers tent. The injured were so great in number that they spilled outside, sitting on the grass. A Sentinel stared numbly at her arm, freshly amputated. Someone had put a patchwork quilt over her shoulders. Serotiny offered her medicine pouch to the healers. It was taken silently and rushed away.

A human woman hurried past her, carrying a kettle of hot water and a shredded sheet over her arm. A Huntress on a saber shot by in the opposite direction, carrying a bunch of dirty bandages. She turned to watch her go. A makeshift laundry had sprung up outside one of the farmhouses, a woman with immense muscles boiling and squeezing the bandages clean.

She needed to move. She was too wrung out to heal anyone, and no more than a nuisance. Her voice seemed to move of its own accord.

“We need to cycle the healers…”

The worgen patted her arm, and pressed a hot drink into her hands, holding it until she was sure Serotiny had a grip of it.

“The priestesses are organising it. Come on now, dearie.”

Smoke. All she could smell was smoke, and death.

“I need to wash.”

The worgen vanished, and a Sentinel with half her face burned away took hold of her.

“Hey, Serotiny.”

She stared at her, and the woman smiled with what remained of her mouth.

“Pulled me out of that cage, remember?”

She could feel nothing, remember nothing.

The lake was surrounded. A number of shell-shocked elves were having their hair and clothing washed by the locals. The scent of sweet lemon filled her head, blotting out the smell of smoke. Black clouds bloomed in the water and dissipated. She ducked her head under the surface, letting it blot out the sound, and listened to her heartbeat in her ears.

The Sentinel plucked her out after a few seconds, clearly concerned she was going to drown.

More tea appeared. Toast. She couldn’t think.

A Stormwind guard stood in a crowd of Kaldorei, taking down their names as they searched for loved ones. Several healers had fallen asleep in the makeshift beds outside the farmers house. The poor farmhands seemed flustered as she appeared and laid herself down upon the grass between two male archers. They shifted silently so that she could fit.

A soft voice made her twitch.

Tyrande stood in front of a portal, resplendent in her priestess robes, her voice reverberating. The far side of the portal was black with smoke. No one would see it. But ah, they would hear the voice, and anyone who remained be guided to safety.

She had to get up, help.

Sleep. Sleep, so that she was replenished. With so many injured they would need every scrap of healing she could summon.

It was good, she thought faintly, that all her family were already dead. Now she didn’t have anything to distract her. 

Summermoon’s wisp shot past her, heading right for the middle of the pumpkin field. She hovered briefly and then descended into the earth, shifting it around as if to make herself comfortable. One of the human farmers spun on her, wide eyed.

“What’s that thing doing?”

“Growing.”

Here seemed as good a place as any.


End file.
